Telling the Truth
by katbybee
Summary: Written for the 2017 Short Story Speedwriting Challenge. Written Prompt was: "I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might tell the truth." Photoprompt #4. In which Newkirk and Carter face a desperate situation, and Newkirk learns a hard truth about himself…usual useless disclaimers apply.


**R** **egret**

If there was one thing Peter Newkirk was good at it, it was lying. He had the perfect poker face. This ability had saved his skin countless times in his 27 years. There was only one person in the camp he could never lie to successfully.

No matter how hard he tried, Andrew Carter had his number. And it drove him crackers. Because most of the time, Andrew would just smile and let him get away with it…unless they were playing gin…then all bets were off. Carter was a killer gin player, friendship or no.

But now, he desperately wanted to lie to Andrew, and he found that he couldn't. They were in trouble, and they both knew it. It was funny, really. The mission had started out as a walk in the park, just a straight-forward pick up of a downed flyer. Peter thought back to earlier that morning…

~HH~

It had been just after roll call when Kinch had received the message and relayed it to Col. Hogan. A flyer was down, and would meet them that night. Things had been slow, so Hogan had flung his arm around Newkirk and said with that self-satisfied way he had, "Well, boys, aren't you glad we're back in business?"

And he remembered the look on Andrew's face when Newkirk, finishing a bit of chocolate, had replied, **"I refuse to answer on the grounds that I might tell the truth."**

Hogan had smirked and walked away, talking with Kinch, after assigning them to pick up the flyer. Carter frowned at his best friend. "What is it, Peter? What's wrong?"

Newkirk scowled, knowing it was useless to pretend. "I dunno…" he shook his head. "Just got the collywobbles for some reason. Maybe ol' Louis' breakfast didn't set right. It doesn't matter, mate." And with a dismissive wave of his hand, Peter turned and strode away, leaving his friend frowning behind him.

~HH~

Newkirk groaned as he tried to turn, grimacing as the shackle bit more deeply into his leg. He cursed silently as he thought back to the scene that morning. He remembered the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when they had received their orders. Why hadn't he said something to Col. Hogan? He leaned back against the cold stone of the cell and admitted the truth. Because of all the people he did not trust in this world…the main person he didn't trust was—Peter Newkirk.

As he listened to Andrew's labored breathing in the dark, and remembered the events of that terrible afternoon, he knew his best mate was paying the price for the fact that he had grown up knowing he could never fully trust anyone…except perhaps for the man chained to the wall next to him…

Exhaustion and pain finally overwhelmed him, and as he began to drift to sleep, Peter began to wonder just when it had happened. When had he began to really trust someone for the only time in his life? How had it happened, and why? What was it about the kid, and face it, Andrew was still a kid in a lot of ways…

And then Peter knew. It had been a few months after they had met, when Andrew had taken care of him when they were both in the cooler and Peter had a pretty nasty concussion. He was out of his head for the better part of three days, but there wasn't much Wilson could do; except advise Carter to watch him. And that is what Andrew had done. The whole three days. Louis had brought cool, wet rags, and offered to spell him, but Carter had refused. He stayed awake the entire time. Newkirk raved and ranted, and Carter kept his secrets, and sang to him to calm him.

And when it was over, Andrew never said a word to him about what had happened. Never treated him any differently. Was simply the same Carter he had always known. That was when Peter knew he could trust Andrew. And he did…more than he trusted himself.

Tears stung his eyes as sleep overcame him…

~HH~

 **Waiting**

It was just before dawn. Peter would have been able to tell, even without the high, small window in their cell. Years of captivity and routine had ingrained certain habits. Beside him, Carter stirred painfully. Pete found himself wishing Carter could have slept a bit longer…although his dreams were probably every bit as bad as their current reality.

Just then, they heard the scrape of keys in the door.

Newkirk steeled himself for another round of interrogations. He knew he could hold out, but he was afraid for Andrew. The guards had been particularly brutal yesterday. It would figure that Frick and Frack, the two goons they had been stuck with seemed to relish their tasks, and had gone about the business of attempting to separate Andrew's soul from his body with gusto. But it had not worked. Peter could have told them that, short of a bullet, it never would.

He tensed himself, ready to try to fight for a weapon, if he possibly could. He was startled as he looked up into the warm brown eyes of his commanding officer gazing down at him in deep concern. Newkirk had not heard any gunfire or other indication of anything amiss, so Hogan's presence here was a mystery. Especially since he was wearing his familiar crush cap and brown flight jacket…and not any kind of German uniform. And he was alone. And strangely, he made no move to come further into the room. He simply stood and stared compassionately at Peter for a few moments. He then switched his gaze over to Andrew. Silently he stared, with an odd expression…one Peter had never seen before. This confused and angered him. They should be leaving now, before the guards came!

Newkirk lunged forward towards Hogan…and received a mighty kick to his midsection from the startled guard—the one he had privately named "Frack." Newkirk gasped in pain and shock, and Carter came awake with a cry of surprise and rage.

Frack dropped a bucket of foul-smelling soup on the floor and left without a word.

It hit Newkirk then, as he lay doubled over on the floor, that he had been dreaming…or perhaps hallucinating. He sighed, and grimaced at the bucket of watery, grey soup, unsure if it was actually edible. A moment later, a slot in the door opened and two small, hard, brown rolls were thrown to the floor near Andrew, but just out of reach of either captive. For the moment, neither man was inclined to try to retrieve them. The slot slammed shut with a bang.

Andrew stared at him for a long moment, his bruised cheek darker even than the shadows. The sight made Peter wince, remembering the blow that had caused it. The mission had been a trap by the Gestapo; another in a long line of attempts to find and destroy Papa Bear.

Neither of them had broken, neither of them would. But it hurt so much to watch your friends suffer. And that is what the Gestapo counted on. They used that pain and fear to break people. What they didn't realize was that each of the men now in their custody valued something far greater than themselves or even each other. Evil had no chance at its goal, because these two men valued freedom—at any price.

~HH~

 **Planning**

Andrew spoke quietly, leaning awkwardly against the corner of the cell, trying to shield his shoulder as best he could. He wasn't sure if it was broken, or simply dislocated, but he couldn't move it without searing pain. Newkirk had used their combined undershirts to fashion a sort of bandage to strap his left arm to his chest. He had then buttoned Carter's shirt as best he could. Surprisingly, the Germans had left them their coats, although they had searched them thoroughly.

"Do you think they know?"

Peter nodded. "They know by now. I wonder who fed London the bad intel."

Carter's eyes widened at the thought. "We have to get out of here…we gotta warn the guys!"

"Me very thoughts, mate, but we're not exactly at our best, y'know. What would you suggest?"

"Do you still have your lock-picks?"

Sadly, Newkirk shook his head. Frick had stolen them when they had first arrived.

"What about your knife?"

"No, lad. The bloody twister confiscated that too. I saw him drop 'em both into his ruddy pocket."

Carter's eyes narrowed. "Well, then, you'll just have to get 'em back."

"An' just how do I do that?" He shook his manacled wrists.

Andrew tossed him a look of irritation. "I don't know, you figure it out, you're the magician!"

Peter stared at his best friend in momentary disbelief, then really studied Andrew's pale and bruised face, as he leaned back into his corner. Even from his side of the room Peter could see that his shoulder was terribly swollen, and the discoloration that showed through the tears in his shirt was awful.

"If I could get me hands loose, I could do something," he mused out loud. His eyes fell on the soup bucket. The handle was made of wire. Maybe, just maybe…

"Andrew, lean up here. Come and get your breakfast."

Carter responded with something closely resembling a stink-eye. He then settled back into his corner with a grunt. "No, thanks. It looks like dishwater."

Impatiently, Newkirk glared at him. "I'm serious, mate. I have an idea, but I need this bucket. And we can't just dump this much soup all over the floor. The guards'll be suspicious. Now get over here and drink this bloody soup!"

Newkirk placed the bucket as close to Andrew as he could, and as a show of bravado took a large swallow of the odious glop. He shuddered but held the bucket out to Andrew, who groaned quietly as he slid over towards Peter, unable to really take the bucket due to his injuries and his manacled wrists. Peter held the bucket as he drank some of the soup, choking on the cold, greasy liquid.

Carter shook his head in revulsion. "I think dishwater would probably taste better." He frowned. "Do we really have to drink it all?"

Newkirk considered. "I'm afraid so, mate. I need the handle off the bucket to get these cuffs off, and I need the bucket itself to get me property back."

Andrew looked at his best friend oddly, but, trusting that he had a plan, said no more. He simply set about the task with his usual dogged determination, and between the two, the wretched soup was finished in short order.

Once they finished, Peter took the bucket and began twisting the handle until it came loose. He then fashioned a passable lock-pick with it. He knew he had to hurry, because the guard would be returning for the bucket, and he would only have one chance at gaining their freedom.

At last, he had the pick ready. He then turned to Andrew. "Now look, mate. We only 'ave one shot at this. When the guards come back, I'm gonna take out the one what stole me stuff, and get us out of here. But to do it, I need you to distract the other guard."

Andrew nodded. "I can do that."

Newkirk regarded him keenly. "Don't suppose you've got any spare gunpowder sewn into the hems of those scrofulous trousers of yours, do you?" It was a running joke around the camp that Andrew's favorite pair of pants, a baggy pair of faded service denims were nothing but patches holding patches together, which was actually fairly close to the truth. *

Carter rolled his eyes. "Nope, sorry. I had some poppers and a few smoke bombs with me, but I ditched them before they got a chance to search me."

Newkirk gaped at him in admiration. "How did you manage that? I was standing right there the whole bloody time!"

"Easy. Remember when you started arguing with the guards? I just dropped 'em into the flowerbed behind us while they were payin' more attention to you."

Peter nodded ruefully, rubbing the still-painful knot on the back of his head. He remembered the attention all right…and the ensuing trip to Gestapo headquarters. He shook off the memories. They had work to do if they were going to get back to the rest of their team.

He looked over at Andrew. "Now, here's what I have in mind. We can't let anybody get too close a look at you, with your face like that, so I was thinking maybe…"

~HH~

 **Escape**

When the door scraped open an hour later, Andrew was slumped in the corner, unconscious. The bucket was overturned, laying in the corner next to Peter, seemingly forgotten. Peter was crouched as close to his best friend as he could manage, panic written all over his haggard features. "You gotta help him, mate!"

As the German guard they had christened "Frack" moved over towards Andrew, "Frick" stepped fully into the cell behind him. This was the move Newkirk had been waiting for. He lunged his feet and grabbing the oak bucket, brought it up full force into Frick's midsection. He immediately slammed the guard into the stone floor, knocking the man out cold. He then frisked him, praying he was still carrying his stolen booty. Luck was with him, and Peter claimed his property quickly.

He turned just as Frack fell at his feet, also unconscious. He looked at his friend, who merely shrugged. They began to strip the guard, when Carter stopped suddenly. Grimly, he looked his friend in the eye. "You have to do something about my shoulder. Right now. I can't escape with it like this."

Understanding dawned in Newkirk's eyes and he quickly unwound the bandages. "'m sorry, mate. This is gonna hurt."

Carter nodded, but remained silent. It took all of Newkirk's considerable strength to wrench Andrew's shoulder back into place, and all of Andrew's not to scream. They both sagged for a moment when it was done. As Carter then began to work the stiffness out of his arm, Newkirk gagged and shackled the two unconscious guards.

Peter quickly changed into Frack's uniform, which turned out to be the best fit. He wound some of the makeshift bandages around most of Andrew's face, making sure he could still see. Andrew insisted Peter re-shackle his hands, in order to make it look convincing. Reluctantly, he did, placing his arms as comfortably as possible. He bundled his clothes into a small pack, unloaded Frick's rifle and tossed it under the bunk. He then picked up the other rifle and the pack and they made their way cautiously out of the cell, and locked it. Newkirk then took his place, holding the rifle at Carter's back.

For having no real plan beyond immediate escape, Lady Luck seemed to be with them. They encountered no one in the dank hallways, but would not breathe easily until they were actually out of the building and somewhere relatively safe.

As they ducked into a utility closet to avoid a group of Germans exiting the front of the building, they heard a blessedly familiar voice raised in very loud, very arrogant irritation: "How dare you question the word of General Hoopenheimer!"

Carter and Newkirk looked at each other in amazement. They peeked around the corner and breathed a sigh of relief as they recognized Colonel Hogan, resplendent in an Abwher General's uniform. LeBeau stood stiffly beside him, acting as his aide. Hogan was twisting the young corporal manning the desk into knots, something they had done so often, they could do it in their sleep.

Their team had come for them…they were so close, now!

Newkirk prayed both Col. Hogan and Carter would be quick enough to play along with him. It was the only chance they had. He suddenly pushed Andrew into the hallway, being careful of his shoulder. Unfortunately, Andrew was taken off-guard and stumbled, nearly falling. Newkirk grabbed his right arm to steady him, making it seem as if he were berating the hapless prisoner.

As he began yelling at his charge in German, all eyes turned to the pair, and the "General's" eyes widened slightly in recognition. Immediately he stepped over, brushing aside the pesky desk clerk.

"You there! Corporal! What is the meaning of this? Where are you taking this prisoner?"

Newkirk saluted crisply and replied in flawless German, "Another guard came to his cell and told me to bring him here, Herr General!"

Instantly whirling on the corporal, Hogan bore down on the young man. "There! You see? This is one of the prisoners I was looking for! He is a very dangerous man. I will require the services of your guard as a precaution."

The corporal began to stutter. "I-I c-cannot do this, sir! I am n-not authorized! I-I must c-call— "

Hogan cut him off with a menacing stare and a low growl as he leaned into the desk. "You must call NO ONE! You would like to see duty on the Eastern Front, would you?" His voice had lowered to almost a purr. He stared a moment longer at the terrified corporal, who made no move towards the telephone. "Very good." He turned to his "aide." "You see, Heinrich? They can be taught."

After the obligatory exchange of salutes, Hogan turned back to his men. "Come, we have far to go. I wish to see this man interrogated as soon as possible."

Without a backward glance, the four Allies marched out of Gestapo Headquarters and got into the Kommandant's staff car, which he had graciously (and unwittingly) leant them for the occasion.

~HH~

 **Epilogue**

They removed the bandages from Andrew's face shortly after leaving headquarters. The others were appalled at the damage to his face and shoulder, but not necessarily surprised. Andrew said very little, and he slept most of the way back, although it was not really that long a trip.

Newkirk was also uncharacteristically quiet, and the others knew there was something really bothering him. They knew it was best not to push him. Col. Hogan spoke quietly. "You know we have to debrief both of you. It would be best to do it right away." He didn't add _"…while it's all still fresh,"_ but the words hung between them all the same.

Newkirk merely nodded and turned back to stare out the window. .

~HH~

Peter and Andrew were never so happy to reach home in their lives. They had ditched the Kommandant's car just outside of camp. Kinch had made a deal with one of the guards at the motor pool to pick it up for them, so Klink would be none the wiser. They made their way through the tree stump into the tunnel, along with Hogan and LeBeau, and they both nearly collapsed with relief.

They were welcomed back like lost sheep to the fold, and given medical checks by Sgt. Wilson. They were indeed, debriefed, and London was given their report. They had not been gone long, but any trip to the Gestapo was always horrifying. And the fact that they had been tricked was a special insult…and one which London was dealing with harshly. The traitor was even now being tracked. He would be caught. And justice would be swift.

Later that evening, just before lights out, Peter and Andrew were sitting on the bench outside Barracks Two. They were sharing a cigarette, as they often did when their Red Cross packages were late. Andrew blew a smoke ring into the air and they both watched it lazily drift away. He had been nearly silent all day. Peter looked over at his best mate. "Well?"

Andrew handed him the cigarette. "Just do me a favor. You ever get the collywobbles before a mission again, tell me _before_ we leave, okay?" He leaned back against the bench and smiled.

Peter raised an eyebrow, nodded, "I will, mate. I will."

~The End~

A/N: * Which I think might be true…If you watch many of the later episodes, Carter always seems to be wearing the same pair of pants, and they get _much_ worse as time goes on!


End file.
